efore Fritz left the courtyard, he stopped beside the bench where he and Katrina had been sitting. The hope was strong in him that he might hear the voice again; for there was one question he wished to ask. And while he stood there, hoping to realize his wish, he watched the shadows as they crept over the mountains, then into the valley far below. Only faintly now could he discern the white pathway that wound over the nearest hill, then down into the Marienthal. Suddenly, Fritz gave a start of pleasure; the voice was speaking in those same rich accents.

“So you are looking down there at the Singers’ Way. That is the name of the white path you see, glistening against the dark green background in the valley yonder.”

“Yes, I know it well,” said Fritz. “My father has taken Katrina and me to walk there very often. When we felt tired we’d rest on the Singers’ bench far away at the end, and father would tell us of the minstrels who used to sing at the castle long ago,—how, when weary with the journey, they, too, would stop and rest on that same seat.”

“But have you never seen the splendid Minstrels’ Hall, where the bards who visited the Wartburg in the olden days would sing and play their harps?”

“No, I have never been inside the castle. Katrina hasn’t been allowed to go, and I am waiting until we can visit it together.”

“Ah, then you have yet to see the great hall where they held the famous minstrel contest, which has passed into song and story.”

“I’d like truly to have you tell me about this contest,” was Fritz’s answer. “Then when we visit the Minstrels’ Hall I can repeat the story to Katrina.”

“Very well,” the voice responded. “When you and your little friend enter the great room, you will see a slightly raised platform. This is called the ‘bower,’ and it was here that the singers performed their parts when they came before the landgraves and their distinguished company. Now the famous contest of which I am about to tell you took place in the time of the good Landgrave Herman.

“At Herman’s court were a company of poets of good birth, the chief of whom were Wolfram of Eschenbach and Henry of Ofterdingen. This Henry of Ofterdingen has figured in many a romantic story, and some have confused him with TannhÄuser, another bard, who lived at a later date.

“Once upon a time,” the voice went on, “when the good Herman and his wife Sophia, with all their court, were gathered in the Minstrels’ Hall, the singers, one by one, recited the deeds of the Landgrave Herman. But when it came to the turn of Henry of Ofterdingen he sang praises to the Duke of Austria, and compared him with the shining sun. Thus begun, the contest waxed so fierce that it was agreed the conquered should be put to death. Only by foul play could the other minstrels worst Henry of Ofterdingen. He, seeing their intentions, appealed to the Landgravine Sophia for protection. Out of pity the noble princess shielded him, but gave him his freedom on one condition only. He must go to Austria, and, in a year’s time, return, bringing with him as arbitrator the world-renowned master of song, Klingsor of Hungary.

“Ofterdingen, glad to escape, hastened away to Austria, and sought the duke whom he had lauded in his songs. The latter received him graciously, and, besides enriching him with costly gifts, gave him a letter to Klingsor, who dwelt in his splendid, but solitary, castle in the Seven Hills.

“To the surprise of every one, Henry of Ofterdingen, accompanied by Klingsor, appeared before the Wartburg at the appointed time. Now this Klingsor was an astrologer, who professed to foretell events by reading them in the stars. And on the first night of his coming to the Wartburg, he was found seated outside the castle, gazing attentively at the starry sky. On being asked why he sat looking at the heavens, Klingsor replied:

“‘Ye must know that this night a daughter is born to my master, King Andrew of Hungary. She will be called Elizabeth, and lead a saintly life; furthermore, she is to be wedded to the young prince Ludwig, son of the Landgrave Herman; and the whole world, but especially Thuringia, will be blessed with her goodness.’

“The Landgrave Herman, to whom the news was carried, was filled with joy, and ordered that a great banquet be held in Klingsor’s honour. Then the contest, the trial of skill, with Klingsor in the lead, began in earnest. It was not long until he succeeded in overcoming all the opponents of Ofterdingen with the exception of Wolfram of Eschenbach,—him he could not conquer.”

At this point the voice ceased speaking, and Fritz waited for several moments, hoping it would resume the theme, but was disappointed.

“Why,” he asked at last, “could not the mighty Klingsor conquer Wolfram of Eschenbach?”

Still there was no answer. But after a time the voice went on to say:

“As I told you and your companion, I have watched many generations come and go. In fact, little has taken place here without my knowledge. I possess, as I have said before, the greatest of all treasures.”

Then, all of a sudden, something seemed to rivet Fritz’s gaze upon the rustling leaves of an old vine, which for centuries had hung upon the castle like a rich, green mantle, and, to his bewilderment, Fritz realized that it was the Ivy which had spoken.

But what it meant by saying that it possessed the greatest treasure Fritz did not learn; for when he asked the question, the only sound he heard was one that came up to him from out of the Marienthal—an echo of his own words, “the greatest treasure.”